


Angels On A Charred Zenith

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Call of Duty, Call of Duty Black Ops 2 - Fandom
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood and Gore, Chauvinism, Child Soldiers, Communism, Crimes & Criminals, Domination, Hate Crimes, Imprisonment, M/M, Murder, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Rape, Raul Being A Typical Machista, Red Scare, Sex Slavery, Sexual Violence, Slurs, Submission, Swearing, Torture, War Crimes, War-Related Topics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 19:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10669149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: Frank Woods never quite forgot what happened in Angola. Raul Menendez never stopped reminding him by simply existing.





	Angels On A Charred Zenith

_-”Beauty is mysterious as well as terrible._  
_God and devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man.”-_

_(Fyodor Dostoevsky)_

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**1986.**

 

 

 

Frank prided himself on not being the type to be frightened easily.  
Or impressed easily - on the field of brutality and intimidation all alike.  
Especially not after Russia, Hanoi Hilton and a fuckton of disastrous events.  
Just enough to make someone simply go co crazy in the coconut, as they say.  
And man learns to take it like a man after a while, if that makes any sense.  
He’s seen everything he could have seen at this sorry point in time.  
And the searing Angolan heat - nothing could phase him.  
Not the flies, the insects, the hunger, the dust.  
Certainly not the perks of guerrilla warfare.  
Or those pesky ambush parties running about.  
Even though, Savimbi often warned him otherwise.

 

 

 

This Nicaraguan, this Raul Menendez, Paul Nenendez - _whatever_ he was bloody called - all these foreign names started sounding the same to him after a while, was exactly the type of would-be captor he’d laugh his ass off over. He’s been held captive by the Vietnamese, by those damn Soviets, Commies of all shapes and sizes, Fidel’s handpicked, most elite Cuban privateers, you name it - and he had to admit, even to himself - that some of them were far from foes he could simply shrug the fuck off and pretend like nothing had happened. It was hard to sleep with so many demons on your shoulders, especially when most of them were Marxist, Che-Guevarian pieces of shit. The Red Scare was no joke. Those goddamn Ruskies made Bowman, rest his soul, old Mason and himself Russian Roulette the piss out of each other. That’s not something a man just forgets. Not something a man should forget. But, this snot-nosed brat? Holy hell, was he not taking him seriously. He was something the guys back home in the military would call a pretty-boy. Reminiscent of a singer. A dancer. An actor. What a joker! Greased-back hair. Tanned. Cocksure. Smug. Polished leather shoes in the middle of the jungle. A button-up shirt. Indigo blue. What a joker! He wouldn't last a day without his armed back-up, no doubt. Mason’s old missus would probably fawn over a bastard like this on TV if she was still alive, the poor thing. Man looked like a spitting image of Ricky Ricardo. Frank planned on giggling over this with his grandchildren one day, one some wooden porch somewhere, back in the good, old US of A overlooking a summer garden, or some sappy shit like that. He dreamed about home as it was. He was getting soft like that.

 

 

 

But, things weren’t always what they seemed, were they?  
He should have remembered that.  
Fucking idiot.  
Hotheaded.  
So stubborn.  
He was a Sergeant.  
He wasn’t fresh-meat.  
He didn’t have excuses for this.  
Even gut-feelings and instinct can deceive.  
Especially out in the wilderness, so far away from home.  
So far away from Savimbi’s foreboding, somewhat cryptic explanations.

 

 

_-”Woods - the Nicaraguan - he’s a viper. He bites. You die for hours. Regardless of his vibrant scales. It’s a proverb. From Mogadishu. You’d do well to keep that in mind. The jungle is dangerous. Merciless. This is Africa. Not a picnic.”-_

 

 

Jonas’ sayings came into Woods’ mind far too late, much like a fading, well-meaning, fatherly echo. Man had a point. Outside of his loud, jovial, superstitious, battle-ready, boastful nature - he really did have a point. He was a far from a fool, unlike himself. The ominous quietude of the forest floor turned into chaos in a matter of seconds one night. Chaos into the lack of consciousness. The lack of consciousness into rude, painful awakenings. Awakenings into iron. Iron into blood. Screams. Shrieks. They were ambushed. Imprisoned. Beaten. Stripped. His entire squadron of men. This Menendez-dude, he wasn’t just an upstart kid who was just learning the back-end of his gun, surrounded by a battalion of Castro’s lapdog’s and imported child-soldiers taken from the back-end of whatever war-torn, third world country. He was vicious. Angry. Insane, some would say. Kept asking about the CIA. All bloodshot. Impatient. But, still patient enough to keep his composure. Information. Information. More information. Like Woods would ever give it to him. It wasn’t quite that easy. But, then his boys started dying and the truth became abundantly clear. He was fucked. He should have been more careful. He should have taken percussion. His patrol units should have been stronger. More rigorous. He should have been less of a sass-mouthing, all-knowing asshole out on the perimeter. He should have taken Savimbi’s advice. He was fucked. Hanoi Hilton all over again. Angola really turned out to be a cruel, hateful bitch. What would Mason say? What would Hudson say? Poor Bowman was probably rolling in his grave right about now. Dammit.

 

 

_-”If it’s me you want, it’s me you keep! My men - they’ve nothing to do with this. You hear me!? So, let them go, José! Lets make an agreement! C’mon! You and me! Now!”-_

 

 

 

Frank seethed in anger, naturally not too keen towards the idea of being suspended to a steel, pitch-black ceiling in what seemed like an iron, military container, completely closed-off from sound, echo and the light. All there was that putrid smell. The mumbling for the cell next to his. Reeked of piss, sweat and shit. These animals. They must have been beating his men so hard that one of them soiled himself in fear. Poor sod. This Menendez-person. He clearly came prepared. Far too arrogant for his own good. Couldn’t have been older then someone in his early to mid twenties. A diaper-pooper by the very definition of his years. But, the way he trailed his unseated hunting knife, though. That spoke of experience. This one - he clearly killed before. He clearly liked doing it too. Someone who didn’t wouldn’t have simply given him the kind of toothy, cold smile that would make an aquarium of sharks freeze in terror. Savimbi told him he was some manner of drug-cartel leader, head-honcho thug, crime-boss or whatever the kids called it these days. But, Frank never believed this kid would have this much bravado. In his experience, criminals were like rats. They hide and run back into their holes as soon as they’re faced with too much opposition. This one - he wanted to wipe that self-assured grin of off his damnable mug. Repeatedly. Even if the man hit back twice as hard. What else could Frank do, though? But distract all the attention to himself through sheer, borderline idiotic misbehavior and have enough foolhardy hope that he can somehow, anyhow achieve to do what any sane-minded leader would do right now. Save his men. At least try to. These boys had families back in the States. He didn't. He had to fight for them.

 

 

 

_-”Forgive me. I don’t speak English, Sergeant.”-_

 

 

 

Raul said in English, the clean, flawless type - clearly mocking him.  
Openly taking him for some kind of fucking fool.  
Only the faintest bit of accent in his speech.  
As obviously Latin-American as he could have been.  
Rather proud of it too, by the way he lifted his nose up.  
His own military rank uttered with an exceptional kind of disgust.  
Like it was an insult of the worst kind which his captor intended to spit back at him.  
This kid deserved such a beating that he couldn’t stand up straight after such a comeback.  
The Spaniard smiled at him, as if though he guessed his exact train of thoughts then and there - piece of shit.

 

 

_-”The hell you don’t!”-_

 

 

Frank added, pissed off, with extra ardor, leaning forward, against his bonds.  
Swearing, that if he could, he would rip this bastard a new asshole.  
Realizing he was at a drastic loss for breath too late.  
That the man’s fist rammed itself into his belly.  
Fast enough to leave him fairly disoriented.  
Hardly expecting that much strength.  
Not exactly out of his guy.  
But, surprise, surprise.

 

 

 

_-”Out here, you don’t make the rules! I make the rules! Only me! You’re not quite in the position of demanding anything! But, that’s so like you Americans! Thinking you control everything! Everyone! Even when you’re trapped! Pushed againts the wall like a bunch of filthy ratas! But, don’t worry. I’ll will leave you for last. So you can watch. Do you like fire, incidentally? Because, I have some for you. Sí?”-_

 

 

 

Menendez inquired almost softly, quietly, his voice a warm whisper against his ear - leaving Frank with but a brief, agonizing moment to regain his composure, catch his breath and realize what was being asked of him, for a mere second confused and left dazed by the tenderness of his jailer's tone only to be harshly, unexpectedly snapped back to reality by a sudden, crimson flash of the match between the Nicaraguan’s fingers followed by a click. He flinched, admittedly. If nothing else, from surprise. The uncomfortable, dumbfounding kind. What kind of man - no, what kind of idiot jumps from behaving like a rash, amateur, newly-bred torturer who blows his cool and cover through mere punches to the gut and then replace that with full-on fire-tactics? This guy over here. And again, it would have been downright hilarious. It would have been inappropriately humorous. It would have the golden crown of comedy if he didn’t come to the conclusion far too late as ever. The fire wasn’t intended for him. It was intended for his men. This fucker. He intended to have him witness it too. Like some sort of spectacle. Brushing a single hand through the slick-back of his jet black hair like he had not a single care in the world as he near nonchalantly trailed the live match down the flesh of his own his grunts. Could have used a torch-light. Electrical shocks. But, this dude wanted to make it as slow as humanly possible. As slow as he possibly could. As slow and as crude. Some full-on Kravchenko bullcrap! His everlasting, honeyed smile was indicator of that. Hell, no. And women probably think a fucktard like this is attractive. Jesus fuck! He was disgusted with him. With himself as well. Sure as hell wanted to give Kravchenko a whooping for getting into this hellhole in the first place. Russian cockroach!

 

 

 

_-”You unholy, twisted piece of shit! I swear, I -”-_

 

 

 

Frank stuttered, half-loathing, half-desperate.  
Fingers attempting to fight the chains.  
He never begged for himself.  
Not even in Vietnam.  
Not anywhere.  
It was simply the way he was.  
Hudson and Mason would say he was too proud.  
But, his men - his men were a different ordeal altogether now.  
Being an asshole was one thing - someone else paying for your assholery was another.  
He didn’t need widows, embittered families and orphaned brats on his conscience too.  
So, he went for the only option he had - a listless kick towards the emptiness of air.  
An futile attempt which bore neither fruit nor a payoff, leaving him searing.  
And they just kept burning - one by one, one by one.  
Until fire wasn’t fun for him anymore.  
Until it wasn’t painful enough.

 

 

Despite of this Menendez guy’s obvious fascination.  
Weeks passed - and that’s what he spotted about him - Raul loved and loathed the element.  
An inexplicable glint in his eye whenever he lit a match - the Comrade was a nutjob.  
Of course Kravchenko would be on the sidelines with a nutjob.  
Never really met a Russian who wasn’t shady.  
Especially not one selling Soviet arms.  
Behind his superior’s backs.  
To some mobster.  
God.

 

 

 

_-”You know, a long time ago I learned that physical pain, at it’s core, means nothing. You can cut a man, he will heal. You can beat him, he will recover. You can shoot him, he will pull through. You can even burn him and chances are he will survive that too. But, the pain of the heart? That doesn’t heal. Ever. Nunca.”-_

 

 

 

Raul mused, his hand over his chest to put special emphasis on what part of the human body he was referring to exactly - the melodramatic asshole - circling around him - he went from being suspended from the ceiling, strapped to a table, tied to a chair, forced to crawl on all four across the grimy, cold, slippery, vomit-covered iron floor like some kind of dog in front the simple, commonplace chair of his captor sitting crossed legged, cross-armed, far too amused and far too jovial as he idly toyed around with his bloodied, sharpened hunting knife - the Spaniard lost his temper often and well and his frustrations came to light in sudden changes within his makeshift little torture organization - and God, did he talk. He talked a lot. Frank, despite his pain, anguish, hunger and thirst wasn’t entirely certain if at times Menendez spoke to him or to someone else entirely. Perhaps to himself? Some imaginary demon? Or perhaps he was just insane? Coked out of his mind? All of these Latin, would-be drug-lords rising in the shadow of good, old uncle Escobar usually were. Yet, somehow, it felt like a private vendetta. Woods knew Kravchenko. He knew him like one of those annoying rashes impossible to reach and scratch. And he’s heard about the man he’s been secretly dealing arms to. From Savimbi as well. The Nicaraguan. Never has he believed it, though. That some randy talking smack and narrating endlessly would fill him with a sense of familiarity. Boy clearly hated Americans to the grave and beyond. What else was new? Frank was almost convinced he might have popped someone’s aunt or auntie by accident and that the mistake was out to haunt him in the form of an embittered family member. But, no. Raul’s loathing was like liquid fire. It infected him. It was contagious. Addictive. Saccharine. Leaving Woods with the impression that being hated by Menendez alone was akin to being hated by a thousand men all at once.

 

 

 

_-”What? Plan on breaking my heart, champ!? Aww, you don't have to!”-_

 

 

 

With his last ounce of cockiness, Frank teased - humor laced with outright violence and animal-like roaring.  
As desperate and as unhinged as he was maddened - his men almost all dead.  
Those who were left alive were to suffer even further.  
He’s heard something about being left to rot here.  
On the Tobango river, was it?  
Tubango?  
Whatever!  
On a barge, or other?  
Might as well piss his captor enough to just snap and kill him.  
His amigo here had a short fuse to begin with.

 

 

_-”Te voy a tirar.”-_

 

 

Kid spoke in Spanish, or hissed, as it were, riddled with rage, disgust and venom - but, that wasn’t what took Frank off guard. He expected a blow. Another punch. Another cut. Another burn. Another blast of electrical shocks. Any and every manifestation of physical and corporal punishment one might have gotten used to after Vietnam. Hell, he even expected death, partially. Looked forward to it almost, like some kind of coward looking for a quick, easy way out, following in the footsteps of his men. Someone needed to wait for Lev Kravchenko at the gates of hell, after all. But, no. Being straddled by another man, hip against hip and chest against chest wasn’t quite what he had in mind, trying to re-assure himself even though Raul made certain to tie his legs wide apart beforehand, as if though planning this. Sure - fuck if those sods back in the Soviet states didn’t have the off chance of forcing themselves on the women. The unarmed civilians. The children. Enemy soldiers. They said it was merely the part of the province of war. The spoils of battle. Sex-slaves. Human-trafficking. All that jazz. All across the world. From Asia, all the way down to the Middle East and beyond. Frank believed it was depravity. Savagery. Needless barbarism. And by no means did he consider himself a mild-mannered gentleman, mind you. As soon as a broad got caught wind of his habits and personality, she’d scram - the poor thing.  Maybe that's why he never really got married. He was a soldier after all, and a damn good one at that. But, hell - he was no animal either. Apparently, though - Raul Menendez was. The low hum in the man’s chest there to prove that he was aware of the fact too. And Woods knew enough Spanish by now to know what he previously said. Teeth gritted. His own turmoil boiling like a fiery kettle. This wasn’t how he intended to go. No. He’d rather be roasted. Eaten alive. Vivisected piece by piece. Buried alive up his neck in the sand. Something to leave him a shred of dignity, manhood and ire in whatever shape, way or form, fucking hell!

 

 

 

_-”I once read that a man’s greatest internal fear is to be treated like a woman within the confines of warfare and life itself. Do you read, Sergeant Woods? No? Pues, ni modo. I myself have read enough to know that the most lasting forms of torture begin with deshumanización. Y el acondicionamiento. Lets see how true that really is, sí?”-_

 

 

 

Raul whispered huskily, lips parted, his hips bucking toward, in dry heaves as his hands slid up Woods’ torso - and shit - of course the bastard the was right. If he shot him here and now alongside the corpses sprawn out on the floor, riddled with maggots, worms and flies, if he tortured him, starved him, twisted him, drowned him - at least he wouldn’t go out like a bitch. At least he wouldn’t feel like a bitch. At least his surviving crew members wouldn’t view him like a bitch. With pity, sadness and remorse. If Frank Woods couldn’t stand something then it was precisely pity, sadness and remorse! He’d rather be minced slowly. He’d rather be anything then an object of pity. Their glassy, half-disoriented lids started at him even now, like ghostly needless. The Nicaraguan fucktard made sure they stayed in the same cell as them for the occasion. The iron container. Half-alive. Half-dead. Bloodied, torn, weak. Unable to speak. Unable to move. Unable to help him or each other. Purely so their last moments on earth could be connected to witnessing their Sargeant used like some kind of cheap, painted party girl down in Saigon-alley. He thought of Mason. He thought of Hudson. He thought of young David too, more or less a curious-eyed toddler now. Pride and shame mixing. Part of him wanting to survive out of his spite, get of out here and give this bastard hell one way or another and then rip Kravchenko’s heart out his chest barehanded for doing this to him and his boys in the firs place. Another part of him wanted to die so they’d never, ever catch wind of this. Ever. Being on the KIA list was preferable to being a victim of - just a victim. Of this. Of this bullshit! Struggling was in vain. It only made it worse.

 

 

He must have dissociated at one point - a common tool of the trade within the military.  
Or maybe he’s lost consciousness as Raul forcibly tried to keep him awake.  
To feel everything, to sense everything - every bit of agony.  
And the fucktard could keep going.  
And going.  
Riding him into the chair.  
Choking him, biting, spitting.  
He wasn’t sure where the strength came from.  
He would have been a corny cuntbag if he claimed it was his anger alone.  
Then again - perhaps it was - Frank himself survived most things within his career of brash rage itself.  
If people lived out of resentment, logic demanded they could fuck others out of resentment.  
Another of critical, severe, damaging, nearly fatal underestimation.  
Raul Menendez was more then a comically amiable face.  
He was megalomaniacal piece of shit.  
Woods wanted him dead.  
Simple as.

 

 

 

And then it ended, temporarily, Frank understood, after being edged on and on for hours only to be denied, teased, restrained and left aching - wanting release out of need and out of the purest form of indignation. No pleasure behind it. Solely the very act of dishonor. Humbling. Abasement. Why put a bullet between someone’s eyes when you can disgrace them instead, eh? In front of his own regiment. In front of Menendez’s leering, mocking mercenaries. Why not! Why the fuck not! Fuck! He found that he started hating Cubans and Latin-Americans even more then he hated the Russians. But, hey? After all, Frank hated everyone in equal measure. The Nicaraguan wouldn’t just leave it at that. Because of course he wouldn’t. He already proved to be enough of a human shitstain to take this all the way through. He’d keep coming back. He’d keep coming back to check on the craters, rashes and charred holes he’s left on his skin. Dots. Lines. Bars. Mentioned how it reminded him of someone very close to him. All the black, chalky powder melting into various spots on his arms. Cigarette marks. Extinguished matches. Whatever the fuck that meant. Savimbi’s warnings seeing mild in comparison, even at their worst. The jungle was dangerous. Angola was dangerous. Africa was dangerous. Not because of the civil unrest. The wildlife. The flora and the fauna for all he cared. Because of the tanned, black-haired prick that sauntered out of the iron container like it was nobodies business. Smiling over his shoulder - the Cubans there to escort him out, the fucktard. Return he did, though. Time and again. Time and again. He endearingly referred to him as _“His prisoner_ ” during all of these messes to add insult to injury. Told him to lay back, enjoy it and dream of America. Fuck, if Frank would give him the satisfaction of triumph, his old stubbornness kicking into him after a fair share of whipping, forced down on all four, taking the man’s sour, salty taste into his mouth. He’s bitten Raul before. Hard enough to stun anyone sane and sound. But, did it that phase Raul? Not one bit. Man was hardly human.

 

 

 

_-”You can’t kill me.”-_

 

 

 

Was all Frank could promise Menendez, outloud - as full of bravado and vows as ever.  
As full of vengeance, poison and retribution as a person could possibly be.  
He’d rip this bastard into so many piece of all God’s angels wouldn’t be able to piece him together.  
And then leave him charred out on the darkening zenith of the wild for all his men to see.  
Learning from the very, very best - From Kravchenko, his time at the Hanoi Hilton.  
He wasn’t going to die in a swamp, and he sure wasn’t going to die in a jungle.  
If anything - Woods was hardly human himself anymore.  
That much, he and Raul Menendez had in common.  
At least that fucking much.


End file.
